


Peripeteia

by Ribbonshalos



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: AU, Blind Hanzo, Character Death, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Medusa - Freeform, One Shot, Romance, Slow Build, Widowmaker is Medusa, don't give me a greek au I will make it a tragedy, greek tale, widowhanzo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-11
Updated: 2017-09-11
Packaged: 2018-12-26 15:36:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12061941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ribbonshalos/pseuds/Ribbonshalos
Summary: The mortal’s feet travel to her, only the green wall separating them. Hesitation stalls the sound of walking, and she rises. They hiss, excited, but fall under silence at her stare upon the man.A soft noise slips from her throat when the man looks back to her.But he doesn’t see.





	Peripeteia

**Author's Note:**

> Peripeteia is defined as a sudden reversal of fortune or change in circumstances.

The walls have faded from a brilliant white to a faded gray. Forgotten. Abandoned. She cannot fix that. The altar is the most precious thing in the temple, lying far within. Shining gold plates and jewels decorating the statue watching over the prayers offered to the great goddess. Only she enters the room now, making it perfect for the goddess.

Outside of the room, the temple is decaying. Stone bodies litter the floor like debris and ash. They hissed in displeasure, causing her to wrinkle her nose when they lick the air to only taste dry ash. Cracks spread throughout the support beams and ceiling, making the temple floor slippery when it rains. Branching rooms hold more praises to the goddess, but they lie hidden away, save for a few frozen faces viewing it.

The garden is her own creation. Flowers bloom, making the bleak temple bright with a few peonies and lilies. Rare beauties that help her breathe along with the sun when the clouds don’t hide it away. They enjoy the grass, and she’ll die down to feel the soft touch of the green. A narrow stream trickles through the back of the temple, allowing her to drink and cool her fingertips.

It’s when she clips an iris to come back with her inside that she hears the soft footsteps. The flower is forgotten, falling to the grass without thought as she straightens. Her eyes search while they taste the air. They can’t tell if it’s a man yet, or a little creature spooking her. She hopes it’s a bird, for she only removes statues from the garden. This is _hers_ , not the goddess’s. They can at least die in the temple where they seek gold, out of her personal place.

But the soft steps are unmistakable, and she lowers herself under a wall of shrubbery. A man walks along the stone path she placed herself. He will come upon the irises, and she will be waiting there. How unfortunate that he won’t be able to admire her flowers.

The mortal’s feet travel to her, only the green wall separating them. Hesitation stalls the sound of walking, and she rises. They hiss, excited, but fall under silence at her stare upon the man.

A soft noise slips from her throat when the man looks back to her.

But he doesn’t see.

The man faces her, but gray swirls the colors of his eyes. What could have been a rich brown is faded with milky clouds. Sharp cheekbones, and an angular face tilt. Listening, and facing her, but not turning into rock and death.

"Who’s there,” his voice calls. It flows like wind, not filled with screams or shouts. Accented. Foreign. His clothes label him as so. A design she’s never seen before, not of the usual men who try to break into the goddess’s temple.

They are unhappy, and one nibbles against her cheekbone before settling. Her body is frozen as if she is the victim, and he the guardian to the sanctuary. Something touches her center, lost and forgotten until now. Warmth spreads into her lungs, but she doesn’t dare breathe for fear of the man turning away.

He still listens. A bow is crossed over his body, a weapon never used against her before. His fingers are still, resting against a strap that holds a quiver of arrows. They stir, reminding her of the dagger on her belt, and how easily she can kill a blind man. Silently, she shushes them, and drinks in the man’s image. Dark hair, shining in a ponytail with a lock framing his face, strikes her pupils. Her breath holds within her, mesmerizing the gold ribbon falling from his hair.

A soft sigh leaves his lips, steady as she takes her first breath. It’s silent, and they taste the air. Rich sandalwood, they tell her, with clove and sweat. Letting it fill her, she inhales.

The garden stands with them for some time. She does not move, neither does the man. The milky eyes do not search, but his other senses do. His hand does not reach for the bow, and he tilts his head every moment or so. Desperation fills her, drying up her throat as she stares. The only man she has truly seen in ages.

The wind ruffles them upon the top of her head, and they hiss in complaint. The man tilts his head at the noise, catching the soft sound. A moment more he stands, before turning away. A quiet breath leaves her throat, but he does not react. Carefully, his feet carry him back down the stone path and away from the temple.

The sun is setting when his form disappears from her sights. Her knees tremble, and she kneels in the grass besides the irises. Her throat collapses, and one hand presses to her mouth as sobs erupt. Closing her eyelids, she paints the image of the man against the back of them as tears slip through. They hum in comfort against her back, one small head licking a tear before it touches the ground.

* * *

The goddess does not favor her. No god has ever shown her love. The blind man was not a gift, or a small mercy. It was a reminder, a small moment of torture. He left the grounds even though she stood in his presence, striking her heart with what she could have but is cursed without.

They hum and try to distract her from crying, but there is little to take away, the man’s dark hair and the twirling ribbon. She kindles a fire that night, and makes a sweet drink that nearly burned her insides when consumed. When the day is too long, or the night too cold, she plays with the flames, but even this doesn’t cure the ache in her chest.

The next day, the garden is her sanctuary. Scanning the hillsides and the faraway horizon for a humanoid shape, she catches herself hoping. Relentless scolding follows afterwards for she knows better.

Hope is only a dream.

Yet, she stays among the irises and peonies the entire day. Glancing up the hill, or the forest to the east side, hope bubbles inside her. Unfamiliar clothes or gray eyes might appear before her again. Another small moment of torture.

Disappointment is sharp and cold. Her foolish thoughts quiet steadily against it’s frigid touch.

Days blur together, rarely holding meaning but being between sleep and waking. Four mornings, she guesses, pass without another tease of what was once hers. On the fifth morning, she only looks outside the temple grounds. The shrine needs to be cleaned, but she peeks outside the shrubbery. Two hundred years, and she cannot learn self-control without pain.

But a man is already standing on the first stone step leading to the lilies. A ribbon whips softly in the wind, and dryness sweeps down her throat as she leaves the temple silently. The bow is wrapped around his body like before, and his fingers do not reach for it. Her inaudible footsteps take her to the same hiding place behind the irises, and the man slowly walks forward. Gray eyes do not move, thick brows motionless as he seems to breathe with the flowers.

Sandals take him silently, the wind playing with the lock of hair framing his face. Her lung tempo is slow, but she inhales at his approaching form. His head tilts, but the air howls through leave and shrubbery. They hiss quietly at him, but don’t wish to attack. They already know they can’t make him their prey. Shushing them, she lines the angles of his jaw, the dark beard with pale skin.

He stops, mirroring the first time he came to her little garden, and lifts his chin.

“Your garden is infested with snakes.” He speaks, and the words billow through her bones like wind through a hollow flute. They hiss at that insult, one snapping its small jaw, but stay still upon her back.

Silence flies with the breeze, and his brow narrows at the lack of response. It wrinkles his skin but is unable to mar the beauty he holds. Taking a step forward, the leaves on the bush between them rustle with the wind, and he stops. Turning his head, he must be listening for her, but she is not foolish enough to speak. She will not betray her own self just to listen to him once more.

“Do you mock a blind man by hiding?” His voice lashes out, demanding an answer that will never be given. His eyes cannot see the tangle of her brow, her parted lips at the sight of a man. He may hear her soft breathing, lighter in his presence, but he does not feel the sand in her throat. He does not feel the weight pressing against her lungs.

Her fingers reach forward, taking a lily and snapping the head off the steam with ease. He turns at that, brow smoothing out as he listens. One of them nips at a purple petal before she tosses it over the man’s head and onto the stone path. The wind lets it touch the rock, and he turns on the soft pat of sound. With sure footing, the flower soon rests at his feet. Carved fingers cup the curved petals, and he holds it between his nails. They hum as she exhales, moving the same air as the lily’s scent touching his nose.

His shoulders loosen, and the flower lies in his palm as he straightens. With gentle fingers, he rubs one petal. An eternity, before he walks away. His figure is burned against the blue horizon, and she takes that painting with her until she sleeps.

Four more days trend through the silent temple and trample her soul. The shrine still glistens, and no trespassers grace the grounds. The garden is where she stays, more than ever. Her hands dig up weeds and pull dead plants. Dirt gets under her fingernails, and dry knuckles crack under the sun before she washes herself in the stream. They hate the cold water, and hiss when she dumps a bucket over all of them. As dreadful as they are, they need to be clean too, and one always nibbles at her ear when they are all dry.

Remembering the gold ribbon and sharp cheekbones seems to slow the days even more.

The sun arises, and she only leaves the steps of the temple when a figure is trudging towards the small garden. She waits, already biting her tongue at how foolishly she lets herself indulge in him. Sharp words want to lash out at him, telling him to leave and never return. The dagger still sits on her belt, but her fingers never reach for it.

When the stones take his footsteps, she watches his stride. They do not hiss, but hum at the appearance, feeding off her energy. The stream trickles rhythmically as he comes closer. He stops at where he’s come to know when to, and tilts his head. The ribbon does not move with the motionless air, and settles across his shoulder.

“Why do you stay in a garden where snakes are everywhere?” His question makes her lips tug into something bitter. The blind man’s senses are sharp, but he doesn’t know of the temple’s guardian. Many tales are whispered around the cities and towns nearby, telling of a horrible beast protecting the gold and gemstones in the shrine room. The goddess’s temple is protected, yet foolish mortals keep hunting where they should not.

How idiotic it is, to keep returning here. Harsh blame is thrown upon him but a piece of her longs for his face.

How idiotic.

A huff of air slips between his lips, and he turns on the path. Reaching forward, fingers spray through a row of lilies, and he feels a petal. Cupping it, he lifts his chin.

“Your flowers are large. Will you stop me from taking this one?” His bait dangles in front of her, but they all almost laugh at it. Shushing them, they wither against her neck. A few snake around her arms, almost as if to reach for him. Not that they can attack if they wanted to, he has no eyes to curse.

A sharp breath, and the flower is plucked with ease. Stilling, waiting for the reaction, he is met with disappointment. He clutches the flower in his palm, nearly crushing it before he turns again.

His feet misguide him of the path, missing the stone. The grass alongside the steps lead him away. An opening between a patch of peonies, and irises allows him direct access to the stream. The water is two feet deep, but any ankle caught off guard will twist easily. Her lips part in panic, but no words can rush through her dry throat. They hiss, touching her shoulder blades as she shoves through the garden. Her toes touch the stone path, closing the distance but not close enough to stop him from tumbling in.

She’s at the stream in moments, catching his shoulders and gargled cry of alarm. Her teeth are bared as she wraps her arm around his torso, silently telling them to not move upon her back. Dragging him backward, her legs strain and rip a seam along her dress. Kicking himself out, they both fall on the grass. It becomes slick with the water and threatens her foothold, but she’s still holding him, nearly completely under his back.

A firm hand wraps around her wrist and the man turns. His weight shifts as he traps her under his chest. The glare marking her eyes is not received but she stares into the gray pools kneeling on the ground. His lower body is soaked, but the ribbon drapes over his shoulder, one arm supporting him as his face turns to her. His grip is tight, and she is caught between getting up and breaking his hold.

He tricked her.

“Idiot,” she hisses. “How dare you?”

They are still silent, one nudging her neck as he is hovering over her body. His hold does not loosen, and his brow narrows.

“How dare _you_ play me like a fool?” His voice is firm, but they are too close. She is too close. He’ll hear, or accidently brush a finger against cold scales. If he tries to touch her hair, what was once glorious dark stands that shined with black moonlight, he’ll know the tales of this part of the land.

She snarls, baring her teeth but it doesn’t phase him. His head turns at her voice, but his eyes see pass her shoulders. Like any man first seeing her, but the gray eyes won’t turn to rock. They are too close, and she again orders them silently to stay back. Their long bodies stretch across the grass, being quiet but sticking their tongues out. Cloves touch all of their senses, and they want a better taste. Her lips part at the scent of sandalwood and the firmness of his chest. He cannot stop her from staring, so she lets her eyes take in his collarbones and muscles roping along his throat. A strong nose aligned with pink lips

“This is my garden, my grounds. You are trespassing.” She growls in her throat, never before having to scare someone away like this, but the goddess will not be angered. He already has enough hardship upon him.

Her wrist still rests in his fingers, but she does not pull away. It would be too easy to reach for the silver dagger tuck in her belt, but the warmth of his skin startles away all other thoughts. A human touch, a close steady breath. Her lips shake at it all, but he does not see. Her ribs aches, wanting more of his chest upon her but this is not a safe haven.

The goddess does not favor her. No god has ever shown her love. They will give no blessings to him because of the curse upon her hair and eyes.

“Then why give me a flower just to cast me away? Why let me linger if I’m not welcomed?” He is too close, and his hard voice has lowered. Rumbling cords slip into her bones and blood. They hiss, and he tilts at the noise. One slips over her shoulder, but she bats it away with her free hand, slipping on the wet grass. Her back lies upon the ground, and his grip tightens as he stands. Taking her to her feet, she tears her hand away, loose fingers letting her.

They aren’t happy about the wet grass, and the water dots her back as they squirm against her. Whispers tell of taking his heart, of stopping it right now by the stream, but she shushes them. This is hers for now, for what little time she has the blind man and his beautiful face.

Both their lungs move, the excitement making both labor for air. Strong shoulders move strong breaths. He is steady, with his cloudy gaze downcast but he still stands within reach. His robes are wet, all just to get her to come out in the open. To touch him.

“Why do you come here?” She asks, letting her voice soften from her usual venom. “There is very little but plants.”

His movements are slow and precise. His dark hair is tied back, swinging ever so softly as he turns his face.

“I’ll answer your questions when you answer mine.” His final statement, and they hiss at her own rage bubbling at his stubbornness. How foolish can one man be, blind and wandering to places where danger stares at him upon every moment?

Her hands curl, one nail brushing the spot where his fingers held onto her. It was so warm—he is so warm. Heat used to spot her body as well, and fill her bed at night. Cold stone and scales are the only textures she can trace now.

Tightening her jaw, she straightens. They move with her, hissing on her shoulders and touching her cheeks.

“Leave. You do not know me nor this place.” She can let him keep his freedom, far from statues and stone. She won’t indulge herself just to suffer all the more in the aftermath.

A sharp line of his lips reflect back, angry, but he breathes out again. “Do you not have a name? Or is it only yours?”

Her own snarl sets on her lips. Insults do not last long in her presence, but the dagger in her belt is left untouched much to their disappointment. There would be no victory in killing a blind man, she reasons, but they disagree only because blood is a beautiful scent.

“Amélie.”

He stills, losing the bitter set to his mouth. The ribbon flutters, flashing gold across her head and withering curses. They taste the air in her anticipation.

“Hanzo.” He gives a small bow. “At your service.”

The desert invades her mouth once again, but she nods though he cannot see it. They touch her arms, and taste along her back. Long bodies who stay silent as she watches his back show off her wishes. Silent steps carry him away, a vision outlined against the horizon.

She says his name once in the dark solitude of her room, and they hum at the sound.

* * *

His gold ribbon flutters in the garden the very next morning. An awakening vision that startles them against her throat and cheeks. They are obedient in staying quiet, and she is diligent in staying away from his reach. He is still hard, and intense, but his questions are of her. Of her dead family and of the land she used to call her own. She has never been married, but they are similar in age. At least the age she was cursed to remain at. She speaks her native tongue, allowing him to finally pinpoint her accent.

Flowers. So many in such a small place. A comfort, but she tells of it being her job. The label nearly makes her snort into her hand, but the circumstances crush any humor arising in her chest. He does not notice them unhappily tasting the air at her small moment of weakness.

He eats her meager bread and honey, noting the sweet taste. The goddess provides for her temple’s protector at the very least. His thanks is soft, nearly as light as the fabric of his ribbon being played with by the wind. Walking does not require her assistance as the familiar stone path holds him, but she asks if he’ll return. He says little, but give a gruff noise that translates to yes.

Waiting through the night is difficult, but they keep her company with the silver dagger. A cold reassurance. A hissing lullaby.

His next visit brings gifts of tea and seafood. Her word nearly die in her throat at the sight. A rare delicacy her tongue as yearn for even with the years passing. Her makeshift blanket settles on the grass, and the lilies hide them among their vines. A soft oasis, among the dirt and thorns. They are good for her, and stay against her back when he is close. The only contact she risks are with his hands and hers, maybe a forearm but no more.

The days now bring excitement for him to come. Hanzo is a business man, prompting the Shimada’s goods along with his brother but his method is less than ideal to him. Her lips tug at the description. He tells of the many times Genji has tormented him with pranks of wrong colors and something askew with his appearance.

She almost grows angry but he confesses that he loves brother dearly. He’s the only one who treats him like a person, and not fragile glass. More than a broken human.

Her fingernails dig into her palm, knowing that she has been selfish this entire time with the blind man. His weakness is her own saving grace. An actual face to gaze upon and speak with and wonder how warm his cheeks feel. Selfish, and that will cost her the only good thing she’s had in too long.

Weeks, and she keeps playing like she can keep him.

“Hanzo,” she slowly touches his arm, allowing him to pull away but he stays still. They stay still on her back, tasting the cloves coming off his body. Her angle is careful, a diagonal and slightly apart so they don’t touch him. A tattoo runs elegantly down his arm, blue dragons and lightning strikes. Warmth makes her throat close, but she moves slowly with him. His skin makes her remember, makes her want even more. The goddess does not favor her, and she remembers the curse well.

They hum softly. She pulls her lips shut and slips away from him an inch more.

“Amélie?” he breathes, making it harder.

Her hand slips down the blue ink and takes his finger. Gray eyes hold nothing but turn as she moves forward. Slowly, the tips of his fingers brush against soft velvet. Rose petals as large as oranges and spilling into red, pink and white. Colors that are not for him, but make her heart lighten by fractions just to let him feel.

“My favorite,” she murmurs. “I’m very proud of them.”

One slips across her shoulder to the bush, but her fingers brush the small head back. Cool scales make her knuckles cold, but they settle once against around her neck. This is hers. He is hers. Just for a moment.

“Almost soft enough to compare to your hands,” he speaks, smoothing the red petals with steady fingers.

Ice flows into her veins, and they hiss at her reaction. He turns his head, concern marking his brow at the infestation unbeknown and right in front of him. Frozen fingers lift away from his arm as she steps back. They continue their song.

The goddess does not favor her. The curse is meant to insolate her from any man or love. If the gods find her happy, how long would they indulge her recklessness before striking her punishment into her chest?

 “Fool,” she snarls, voice cold as snow and sharp as ice. “You cannot see me. You do not know what you are doing.”

Her step back is met with equal ground covered by him. His hand reaches, finding her arm before taking her fingers. Milky pools search, but his lips part slowly.

“It doesn’t matter. I don’t have to see you to know you.” He holds her hand still, firm voice holding without discussion, but it dips lower. “Unless, you do not want to care for a blind man.”

A soft breath escapes her mouth, of disbelief, of his sweet ignorance of what she would have done were he not without sight. The only mercy she has had in this place for years, and he questions his worth to her.

Foolish.

“How can someone not care for such loveliness?” Her words tremble, melting away in his grasp.

 _She’s_ foolish.

“You dare question what you are to me?” Idiotic and slow pleads leave her lips, as her hand reaches forward. Slowly twisting her wrist, she grasps his hand, then takes the other. Holding them in front of her, she raises them to her lips. Worn, strong knuckles with hardened callouses from the string on a bow hover against her skin. Gray eyes stare ahead, but the closeness is piercing right through her.

She cannot let him go. No matter how much it will rip apart her ribcage when he does slip from her grasp, she cannot let him go.

“This is a temple.” She begins slowly, letting the words brush against his fingers. “I am its guardian.”

The story unravels from her lungs like curled ribbons. A woman whose dance was so beautiful, it entranced a god. With long hair that’s rich color made woman envy and men eager to feel it’s softness, the god found her worthy of him. The woman fell in love as they danced many nights away. The god cared for the woman, but the gods care for so little but of their own desires.

He took her to a temple, claiming it as his own. Their love touched every wall, but the statue hailing the proper goddess shook the stone with anger. In her rage, she appeared, and drove the god from the temple. He left his woman behind but the goddess’s rage was not spent yet.

To protect her temple, she made the woman a guardian over the statues and shrine. A curse and position, but that was not enough punishment for the woman who dared love a god in her own house. The goddess bathed the woman’s hair, turning the beautiful locks into writhing snakes. Her prized beauty marred into an insult upon her head. Any man who met her gaze would turn to stone.

Protection and punishment. Trapped and immortalized.  

“Medusa.” He breathes, knowing the name that has been bestowed upon the monster guarding the temple. They taste the air, but don’t smell the fear that follows men who find her.

Mortals never win when gods fight. They always receive punishment for what they cannot control. It is only how it has been since the birth of mankind.

“Leave,” she says against his fingers. A weak moment, but she presses her lips to the pale skin of his hands. Touched starved, and indulging herself for a high only to crash into the stone tonight.

It will hurt, but what is love without suffering?

Freeing his hands, he moves slowly. Several fingers rest against her jawline, before the other hand reaches farther. They hiss at the advancement, but he doesn’t hesitate to find her temple.

Her hand snatches his wrist, inches away from imprinting monstrous thoughts in his mind. Frozen in the air, unable to fling him away or guide him forward. She cannot have him forever, but she wants her memory to not be tainted with what has already covered most of her existence.

“Amélie.”

A broken breath leaves her lungs as they writher. One tastes the air by his hand, and the others stir against her back. Never asleep, never without their curse pressing against her throat and cheeks.

Let him know the monster, and he’ll leave.

The breeze touches them, moving his ribbon as he comes closer. His breath touches her cheek, and his fingers settle against what was once beauty. They slither under his hand, and the noise in the back of his throat tells her enough. Locked within her own bones, they lick his fingernails and hiss about how close he is. He is still, expression wide and gray. Her muscles tremble as they wait, knowing that the screaming will come but he’ll soon be safe.

Slow, delicate movements pet down the length of one of them. All the way to her back before he takes his hand back to her temple. Another stroke and less hissing. Her brow hardens but not into disgust at what he holds, but rather concentration. One nips at his pinky finger, but his hand doesn’t stall from touching all of her.    

They still, wrapping around her throat as she chokes against a bubble of air in her chest. She blinks away the moisture, thickening her eyelashes when his thumb rubs her cheekbone. A slow, steady measure as her own trembling hands rest against his chest.

“Hanzo,” she quakes, still braced for the end. His fingers trail down her hairline— whatever it is now—to hold both cheeks in his hands.

“I’m sorry.” His voice carries a cool breeze against her aching heart. “You don’t deserve this.”

The desert fills her mouth, trying to stop her further but all that tumbles out is, “You idiot…”

She chokes, and his hands hold her. His fingers slip down her throat and around her torso. An embrace that was only felt years ago. He is steady, and strong. Cloves surround her as she lets herself get closer. A nose against his cheek, and her own arms around his neck. The physical contact of a another warm body is a forgotten memory that awakes underneath her skin. They hiss, but are unfazed by the sudden arms touching them. A few taste his skin but they leave her to him for now.

“Amélie,” he whispers against her eyelids.

If she must suffer, she’ll suffer from the greatest love.

* * *

He has spirits. Dragons that dwell within him and the tattoo lining his arm. They are his guides, leading him without fear of falling or getting hurt. They guide his arrows, and pull his bowstring tight. He carries his weapon for protection, and it settles something inside her chest at the thought of him walking alone. 

That’s how he travels without support or others. She doesn’t understand them, but he says they could sense the snakes the very first day. He mistook their edge for the garden being infested, but they were wary of her. Never actually afraid of the danger. They know she holds no power without sight.

As her hands outline his nose and eyelids, he explains that he was born without sight. Colors and sunsets and painting are nothing, but he feels enough to know something is beautiful. Soft and smooth. Her skin and jawline. The curve of her nose and the light fluttering of her lips.

He asks his questions about _them_. They are almost sentient, whispering soft words of men coming to the temple, but they are under her obedience. Snakes are cold and calculating. They rear their heads when a man’s eyes falls upon them, but she is the one who lures them close. When stories of a great beast haunting the halls of the temple are spoken, they find relief in a soft voice beckoning them forward. Promising safety and rest, but only to be met by the graveyard she has already created from rock and terror.

“They want the treasure,” he states, finding the answer himself.

“Or the glory of killing a monster.”

His hand rubs her knuckles, drawing patterns in the lines of her palm. The soft touch makes her breathe softly, leaning into his shoulder as tension bleeds out of her skin. Still, the end is lurking over her shoulder, but she refuses to let it ruin this for her. It won’t ruin him.

“Why did you not attack me when I first came into the garden?” His voice rumbles against her, deep and drawn.

“It has been… too long since I have truly seen another face.” She doesn’t know how to continue, so she presses her lips together. He doesn’t push it. They are calm, roping around her left shoulder so she can be closer to him.

“You cannot leave here…” His breath carries it against her cheek, before she quietly nods her head against him. A small motion to convey her answer. Deep, rumbling chords echo in his chest, but she cannot grieve over herself anymore. He is here now.

And he stays. When the sun rises until the moon is sliding in its place. He cannot enter the temple, she won’t endanger him as such. The garden is their own. When he cannot appear, he speaks of business deals. Those days last the longest, but the end still pokes her ribcage. They hiss, but she refuses to see the inevitable.

She does not plead or beg for his touch, but she finds it nearly every time without prompt. The loneliness must be bleeding out of her pores, or he feels her tense muscles whenever she holds onto him. Either way, he stays close, warm hands always touching skin or lips touching soft curves. Healing her, letting her dance on the edge of happiness.

When a week passes with his work, he returns with food and gifts. A sea shell upon a necklace. An exotic herb to place in her garden besides the lilacs. Stories and tales to keep her mind occupied for hours.

When they rest on the grass, his head on her lap with her fingers marking the lines on his cheek, she finally asks.

“Why did you come back?”

Eyelids blink, but gray pools don’t shift with the motion. His breath is heavy, slow. A million thoughts on one breath.

“The first time was out of curiosity.” His voice rumbles with the words. “If a thief were hiding from me, they would have stuck eventually, but you stayed hidden. Even while I called out to you, blind and walking along a lone path, you didn’t have pity on me.”

A deep breath, a quiet sigh. His body moves in gentle waves against her thighs, steady as its weight holds her down to the ground. An anchor. A rock in the storm.

“You don’t hover, or worry or insist I be still and wait. My bow and arrows are still mine without your concern. You see me as capable.” His fingers wrap around her hand, pressing the palm to his lips as air moves with his breathing. A kiss, a moment to feel her warmth.

A soft sound escapes her throat, and he tilts his head. They hum with her for a moment, one slithering close to a strand of his hair before she brushes it back over her shoulder.

“I only thought of you as a fool.” Leaning down, her lips press to his hairline. A breath against his skin, before moving to the corner of his eyelid. He blinks slowly at the contact, before her mouth touches his cheekbone.

“I am not a fool.” He murmurs, but brushes his hand against her cheek before she straightens her back.

A hum is her only response as her fingers move to trail through his dark hair.

* * *

He doesn’t come the next morning. Disappointed, but not surprised, she tends to the goddess’s shrine. He still has duties to tend to.

The inside of the temple is dim and dusty, save for her cleaning routines upon the shrine. It is vacant of any life, and the statues dotting the open halls only pulsate the dread and death. They bring less ache now that Hanzo’s face comes to fill her mind. Sharp cheekbones and precise facial hair with gray eyes. Her haven in a stony underworld.

The next day is empty of his visit, but she swallows the loneliness and tends to her flowers. They were her first company anyways, besides _them_.

Rain falls in the new dawn. They grumble at the wetness and rumbling noises splattering inside the walls. Shushing them, she bundles herself in a shawl while going to the shrine. The statue of the goddess looks down upon her, but she does not meet its cold gaze.

A footstep echoes, and she stills. They wither against her back, excited. It’s been too long, they hiss. Another mortal has come to try and claim the gold and jewels decorating the statue.

Slow fingers find the dagger on her belt, and she draws it with cool and familiar movements. Blood has never stained the blade, but a few situations have nearly called for it. Stepping to the entrance, she lets them crawl over her shoulders. They tumble down her front like a shield, blood thirsty and ready for the hunt.

Pillars line the halls, and a man steps forward with careful confidence. A helmet lies upon his skull, and armor protects him from blades and arrow points. A sword and shield is held in front of him, balanced on strong hands. An odd hue shines to the metal of his sword, a stain of pink. Perhaps a precious metal. His breathing is heavy, and the boots stepping on the marbled ground echo ominously.

“Medusa!”

She stills behind a pillar, understanding that he does not seek gold but rather glory. They writhe and twitch against her collarbones, ready to strike.

“I will have your head, monster.”

A threat that is brave in deliverance, but vain in action. Armies have come to her threshold, but he can see the statues of men who came before him. A fool, hoping for glory and honor, has come to perish.

She lets them speak, their song rising from the walls and reverberating until the snake’s melody seems to fill the man’s bones. Lifting his shield to his eyes, he hunkers behind it, bracing himself.

His careful steps take him pass her pillar, and she steps into the open. They hiss at the prey only feet away, small fangs nearly cutting against her throat and cheekbones.

The belly of his shield shines silver. In the moments her eyes catch the shiny reflectiveness, he sees her, and turns on his feet. Eyes closed, he swings the sword. Crying out as she jumps back, it slices her shoulder, severing a few heads that makes them all scream out. Her feet stumble back, and her body hits the stone floor as their hisses cry for flesh to be stone.

Fear heats her heart, speeding it in a way she has not known since the curse has touched her hair. This man has the tools and knowledge to kill her, and she only wields a dagger so long as his eyes do not meet hers.

Kill him, they screech. Let us turn him to nothing.

Propping herself up, her hand presses to the open wound on her shoulder, nearly cutting down her armpit. Blood runs through her fingers, red and startling. The man is raising his shield against, back turned but with sight in the reflection of his shield. Moving, grasping for a pillar or statue, she finds a kneeled man made of stone to crouch behind. Her hand clutches the dagger tighter as blood flows down her arm and onto the handle.

This is her end. The monster will finally cease to terrorize the people. The hero will win.

It’s what filled her dreams for so long. Fantasies and delusions of no more entrapment in these walls. She could never do it herself. _They_ made sure she couldn’t, but now…

“Come out, Medusa. It’s over.” The man’s declaration finds her bones and chills them. Haunting her skull with the final blow as he separates her head from her shoulders.

Hanzo.

 _Mon cœur_ …

Her eyelids close as they hiss in warning of the man approaching. Stone presses into her spine as she slips against it. A hot sticky warmth spreads around her shoulder as another warning of her demise. Dropping her hand from the wound, she lets her fingers stroke the imaginations of dark hair, and a gold ribbon. Her lips move in a silence apology for getting blood on his beautiful ponytail. He doesn’t say anything, but an hallucination of his hand pressing her red fingers to his lips stays within her.

The hero’s steps are closer. Breathing quietly, they hiss. In one motion, she pushes herself off the statue, and faces the shiny shield and bloody sword. She lunges forward, dagger ready as they rise with fangs gleaming. His twists on his feet, leaping into the air with the tip of his sword coming down to her. Eyes closed, the hero readies for the final blow.

A whistle of air hits her eardrums. The hero’s momentum is thrown off, and he falls to her side. A feathered end of an arrow sticks out under his right shoulder blade. The shield clatters across the floor, out of reach. Panic fills his face as he glances up at her eyes.

She bares her teeth, eyes flashing an unholy energy as they take their prey. The hiss and scream, rattling with their kill. The pupils turn dark as heaviness fills the lines of his face before stone takes his skin. Seconds turns into eternity as a new statue decorates the great hallway.

Turning away, the most beautiful face stands before the shrine. Strong arms still hold his bow, another arrow nocked. Gray eyes look forward, but they can’t see her eyes fill with hope.

“Amélie,” his voice touches her soul, and she breathes out. The dagger is tucked back into her belt.

“Hanzo,” she breathes, but it comes out of her tight chest. A crushing sensation that shakes her limbs. It attacks her heart, making it slow as her lungs try to move against it. She stumbles towards him. Desperate fingers wipe at the blood on her shoulder to reveal dark veins under pale skin besides the cut.

Poison.

The pink sheer on the hero’s sword.

He calls her again when her body smacks against the floor. His hands reach through the maze of statutes, letting his dragon spirits guide him to her upon the ground. Finding her shoulders, unfazed by the scales or small fangs he brushes against, he brings her to his chest.

“ _Mon cœur_.” She murmurs as blood stains his fingernails. His bow is discarded on the floor as a foreign curse words fall from his lips.

“Be still,” he instructs, going to tear away cloth from his shirt, but she stops his hand.

“The blade was toxic.” She holds tightly to his fingers. “It’s already in my blood.”

His muscles stop, and the pools of foggy eyes hold still in icy silence. A statue of fear, one among numerous others. Fingers clutch hers as he leans closer to her. A ribbon of gold trails over his shoulder and touches her chest, dipping into the blood.

“Amélie,” he breathes against her cheek. Quiet and begging.

“Amélie.”

They hiss softly, feeling the venom taking her.

“Hanzo,” she gasps, barely speaking the rest of her request through the thick poison assaulting her veins. Her chest is collapsing, the ribs too rusted and broken throughout the years.

He nods softly against her, his nose brushing her cheek before his arms wrap underneath her. Like carrying delicate glass, he crosses the hallway of statues with slow movement. Her head falls against his shoulder, one arm dangling in the air as she tries to keep her lungs moving. They do not move. They do not hum. They are still against her back and shoulders.

He held her this close only days ago in the garden, among the lilies and peonies.

The goddess’s shrine gleams down upon them as he kneels before it. Cradling her like a broken doll, he breathes against her in broken intervals that he controls for her sake, or maybe his. Maybe both. The marble statue does not give as he shifts her closer to the feet of the great deity. Touching her fingertips to her bleeding shoulder, she reaches skywards. Red on pale skin as a silent prayer to the goddess she served for years.

The goddess does not favor her. No god has ever shown her love. He is a small gift, one she could never really hold in her hands. Yet, she touched his beauty and felt his lips on her skin.

Closing her eyes, she falls back against him. His chest is a warm embrace as he speaks quietly against her. Pleads and promises don’t reach her, but his hand warms her cheek. His brow touches hers, and she searches with her lips before he gives in to her. Sandalwood fills her mouth, but she can no longer hold the kiss.

“Amélie.” His voice breaks.

He is a gift. A haven. A start to her heart and broken tongue.

“Shush…” her breath trembles. 

He murmurs against her, and she breathes out quietly. In seconds, her heart slows down. It beats nearly silently against her sternum. Shallow movements of her lungs follow his near silent pleads.

“Stay with me.”

The goddess lets her have this gift.

She does not see Hanzo blink. She does not see the milky fog fade from his irises like a sunrise chasing the darkness. She does not see his parted lips, or stunned gaze. She does not see his gaze upon her face, or the curse upon her head.

“ _Mon cœur_ …”

Her only gift, her only favor. The only sign of love from the gods. His sight, and her last heartbeat.

The blind man watches Medusa breathe once last time.

* * *

When he blinks, light floods his eyes. Colors, cool and soft, touch his irises. She lies in his arms, pale, with snakes of dark indigo wrapping around her head. Red drapes over her chest like a blanket. Pink lips, and dusty eyelids paint her features.

He sees.

He sees her.

He feels her lifeless body. Her favor from the goddess flows in his veins.

The temple is too cold, and full of sorrow. He carries her, watching the snakes on her skull wither and fade. They hiss one last time, before dying with their wielder. He doesn’t watch them but the pale eyelids sealing away her eyes.

Rain occupies them, and he drapes his shirt over her. The cold water shouldn’t touch her already cool skin. The wind snaps at him and the weight in his arms, but he does not blink as it touches the now colored irises.

A meadow, with a wild rose bush, is where he falls to his knees. The petals are a pale lavender, a color he knows she finds the most beautiful. He digs with his hands as she rests beside him. The rain is a soft blessing, for the ground is softer and easier to move.

When his fingernails bleed, and his arms want to fall off, he stops. The grave is to his satisfaction. Crawling back to her side, he waits.

New eyes see her again. A perfect painting. Her brow and cheekbones are soft and curved with full lips. Nearly blue now but they used to touch his skin and hair. The wind waves his ribbon, a tip of red decorating the gold end. His fingers catch it, smoothing over the now dried spot.

She was sharp and cold. In her garden, she was sincere, and soft. Her hands as dainty as the flowers she grew. She loved him for what others saw as a defect.

_How would someone not care for such loveliness?_

Standing, he takes her sleeping form. He lowers her slowly into the earth, like laying her to a soft bed. She sleeps, eyes closed.

He cannot see her eyes without the curse staining him, but her voice whispers what they were once. Gold, like his ribbon, and he lets himself cry out her name just once. One sob breaks his chest.

He buries her quietly. The fresh earth lies under the rose bush, with a few of the prettiest petals now resting on top of it.

Freeing the gold ribbon from his hair, he wraps it around his fist. He presses the fabric to his lips. Her color, her essence.

One last kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> Widowhanzo needs more loving but tragedy always seems to be following those two.
> 
> Please R&R, dolls! It means a lot to me!


End file.
